1 Moments in Mexico
by Ezra Cross
Summary: REWRITTEN!It's been a few weeks since New York and the team has split to their individual missions. For Clint, that meant a brief stint undercover with a Tom Cruise lookalike working in IMF as an analyst. The ensuing aftermath left him injured and helpless, driving through Malibu in a stolen Gran Torino. He goes to the only place he can find rest, but will Banner and Tony help him?
1. Prologue

So I have decided to rewrite the linear quality of my Hawkeye series so the stories flow more along the timeline I have created. Therefore: this is the official FIRST book of my massive 18+ book epic. It has been reworked to a degree that I am quite proud of, therefore it has been re-posted. Enjoy!

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**Moment in Mexico  
**

**By, PeechTao**

**Prologue**

The sun was hot on his back. His body sweated for so long he doubted he had anything left to evaporate from his pores. Heat could break men. Even the strongest agents could only stare into the surface of the sun for so long before succumbing to exhaustion or at the least severe dehydration. He hadn't thought about peeing on one of his captor's legs in nearly six hours. Most men would crumble under such circumstances. But most men were not Clint Barton. Stationed in Afghanistan during the biggest heat wave in history, today became little more than a prolonged attempt at a Mexican sun tan. This was a winter walk. This was the coolest he'd ever felt. This torture was nothing.

His eyes stayed clouded under his eyelids. They were like thick dark shades keeping the red light from piercing his very brain. He had only to disappear into his thoughts and leave his shattered body behind in order to maintain his sanity. He read a book he once memorized. It wasn't a very good book, but it had been Coulson's only offering of the sort during their prolong mission in Norway. The Frigid North, the title read. He began with chapter one and continued all the way through the final page in which the author introduced himself as a Hawaiian native with a home in Baltimore. After reading through the mental book, he searched his memory for other things to occupy him. Inevitably Russia came up again, despite how he tried to repel it.

He accepted an assignment there as an analyst to the chief operations manager of IMF; just an analyst, not an operations specialist, or even a stand in recruit. SHIELD wanted to make sure IMF followed the same international rules and were not attempting to tiptoe around the code of international espionage. Then Clint's primary directive wound up with a slug through the back of his head. He needed an extraction, which turned out to be his particular specialty. How many times he wanted to come clean and get out? How many times did he want to take over as primary and banish the ragtag team to some backwoods Bulgarian prison? How had he survived without blowing his cover?

The intricacies of that mission dwelled in his mind, presenting a considerable escape from all that happened in the present. The chains pressing into his arms, the skin-baking heat cooking him from the outside in, the men with their questions . . . all of them faded into the background of his mental castle. Here in the safety of his walled up memories he could never be reached. He could never be broken. He learned this technique over years of intense training.

"Stark! I said the name! Tell us where—"

Hearing Tony's name cut him deeply enough to pass the mortar he erected over his aural senses. He pressed the voices of his captors away, but it didn't prevent his dwelling on their demands. Why wasn't Stark here? Why had the agent called him, expecting Tony to come along? Clint mentally beat himself back to his focus. He couldn't think of that. He couldn't worry about Stark and how Clint would never be in this situation in the first place if Tony had just come when he asked. It was supposed to be a simple mission. In and out. Four targets, three days.

Of course that lie he repeated enough times to begin to believe it's validity. When his SHIELD contact mentioned that four of the men connected to the IMF mission took residence in a bunker decked out like Guantanamo bay, nothing SHIELD could say convinced him out of going in. It was slated as a suicide mission and stuck on the back burner until Clint, Romanov, and a team of handpicked men were ready to storm in with guns drawn. If that option didn't seem worth the loss in man power, SHIELD planned to pass the information along to IMF and make their team handle it.

What did Clint do? He took the file, booked a flight, and arrived outside the bunker with exactly zero back up the next day.

He first admitted to this colossal mistake when the crow's nest of the compound spotted him. Men armed with more than berrettas and dogs chased him through half the Mexican desert. Clint caught on quickly that he took on more than he could handle on his own. In a flight of fancy he used his cell to put in a call with Natasha. No answer. He knew she had returned to Russia. The name "Nit Wit" sat beneath hers in his contact list. Tony. It wouldn't hurt to call an Avenger who could arrive in a blaze of glory within ten minutes, if he was in Malibu. The conversation did not go as planned.

Clint felt the first thwack of a baseball bat connect with the middle of his back. It caused a knee jerk recoil and a grunt he felt awful for letting out. He'd be prepared for the next. As he remembered the hurried conversation between Stark and himself, someone grabbed the back of his chair and threw him to the ground. His head rebounded off the hard packed earth.

Tony's voice held little patience. Clint had little to give himself. Even as he spoke, he tried to keep himself from being killed by four men tucked behind a rock cropping in front of him.

_"Not happening."_ Were Tony's exact words.

"Stark, you don't understand. This isn't like Russia! I need you or else I'm going to die out here!"

_"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?"_

"Dramatic? Do you hear this gunfire?" Clint thrust the phone over his head to pick up the automatic rifle fire.

_"Yes, dramatic. If you wanted a partner, you had it two weeks ago. Now all of a sudden I'm needed? I'm not a dog. I don't sit, stay, and fetch."_

"Are you honestly having this conversation with me right now? Stark, I need you. If I didn't, I wouldn't have called at all."

_"That's the problem then isn't it?"_

The phone hung up.

Clint knew his shell was cracking. He knew that these men, these terrorist bent on world destruction, wanted to use him to get to Tony. They weren't breaking him. If they waited long enough, Clint would break himself. He only had to live through those thoughts again. Those memories of that last conversation. The last talk he and Tony would ever have.

Clint's eyes opened. He looked up into the oppressive sunlight and the sweating, swollen face of the man berating him in Spanglish. They'd recognized him from the IMF operation. They knew he had information and after tracing his phone signal to Tony Stark, they found a connection deeper than any they could have imagined. Clint was a bargaining chip that could get them not only money but a contact. Iron Man in their back pocket? Who wouldn't want that?

Broken. Was this what being broken felt like? After Loki played patty cake with his brain, he knew what it meant to hit rock bottom. This didn't compare.

The red faced man glanced beyond Clint's chained body to another man who strode forward. The bat Clint felt beat his back, this new man held. The guy wound up, spinning in one, two, three wide circles as he tried to gauge the proper placement of a home run into Clint's temple. The first man shook his hand incessantly. Instead he indicated lower to Clint's leg.

"We want to enjoy this. What good to bash in brains on first try?"

_Sound logic,_ Clint thought despondently. What could he do besides just sit there and accept his fate? He wasn't getting out. He wasn't getting rescued, Stark made sure to make that point clear. What use did he have as an agent who couldn't even secure his own escape route?

A wind up, a swing, and Clint felt his leg explode in a mind blowing pain. He screamed. He beat his hands against the dirt where they were trapped. The men laughed as they watched him writhe. They would move on to his other leg. They would tear his arms out of their sockets and enjoy every moment of his struggle. Clint would die here alone.

What clicked in his mind and forced him to move he would never exactly pin down. He could say it was his preservation to live. He could say it was his innate agent training working in the background of his mind. Whatever flipped the switch, Clint owed his life to it.

The men wanted to work his arm loose next. They tossed the chair he was chained to onto its side, dropping all of Clint's weight onto his now broken leg. The chains were yanked off. The man with the bat grabbed Clint by the wrist and began to twist and pull.

Clint used the man's hold on him to stand. He swung his fist, connecting with the guy's jaw. The guy staggered back, allowing Clint to get his good leg under himself. The archer threw his fist again and the man went down. The red-faced guy came next. Clint grabbed him by the shirt and threw him to the ground. A gun went flying out of his holster and Clint stumbled after it.

The guard towers lit up the grounds with automatic fire. The world rushed by as Clint hustled, broken leg dragging behind, to find himself cover. There was a Gran Torino parked at the far gate. If he could make it there, he might be able to get out. He just had to make it. The pain of his leg held him back. He had to block it out. Keep moving. Keep shooting and keep moving. The pain was so intense. He felt like it was killing him. How could anyone stand this?

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enjoy!


	2. Chapter 1

Here's chapter 1!

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**Moment in Mexico  
**

Chapter 1

It was late. Nearing two in the morning by the time he made it outside Stark's Malibu mansion. A steady rain fell most of the day and with the onset of night switched into a heavy sheet. Clint rolled into the driveway, almost pulling onto the front porch. With an unsteady hand he managed to place the car into park and with the door slightly ajar, he climbed out.

Agent Clint Barton was a member of the elite SHIELD brass with no compare when it came to being an expert marksman. He'd logged thousands of hours in the field, had over two hundred dead shots on his record and, as many agents, spent the first few years of service under an expert C.O. banished to the farthest reaches of the world. But there was one issue in his life he always struggled with: keeping a hold on his ID. Most missions required him to be undercover. He had a thousand and one different names, faces, characters all adopted for the mission. Mostly he would use an ID, shred it, and move on but when he lost his SHIELD contacts form . . . the situation called for more tact. Natasha Romanov often complained about his inability to keep in touch. He was never one to call for back up, so what did it matter?

On this occasion, he'd been driving for three days. It took him that long to get across the border in Mexico and back into Southern California without setting off any alarms. The SHIELD officials boarded up the office in downtown Santa Monica since Coulson no longer headed the scout team there. The secondary office existed in Santa Barbra but no one was answering the access line. So, trapped just outside L.A., Clint had few options. He had no money, but that didn't often stop him from scamming a good place to crash. His shirt was missing somewhere on the bad side of Nino Perez along with his bow. He looked like the underside of a dirty work boot and smelled like it to. Only adding to the list of maladies was the small issue of his inability to walk properly. Scamming anything became that much harder. He needed a hospital eventually, but as for his current needs a bed won out over medical attention.

Clint pushed open the door of his stolen Grand Torino and fell out onto the pavement. Half of him hoped Stark was at his summer home in Italy, or finishing the rebuild of Stark Tower in New York. While Clint didn't mind having to deal with Pepper Potts so much, Clint knew from their limited interaction that Tony could be a real handful.

He shuffled along the walkway with his right leg trailing behind him. He wasn't bleeding, an improvement on past experiences. A lack of red viscosity did not mean he got off easy. Slowly, painfully, he limped his way to Stark's front door and tapped the keypad.

"_Agent Barton, a pleasure as always to see you." _Stark's AI butler of sorts, JARVIS chimed at him.

"Morning JARVIS." Clint replied. "Mind opening up?"

If the answer was no, Clint was already prepared to open a window by force. The door clicked and buckled, allowing him a non-forced entry. Clint reached a hand forward and pushed the door open the rest of the way. He couldn't begin to surmise what made Tony agree to have a spy on his allowable entry list. After the falling out Clint and he suffered just a short time ago after the New York attack, he expected any doors in their future to be firmly locked. He used the handle as a crutch to get along. If he remembered the house's planning, the closest place to stretch out resided in the living room downstairs.

_Well, at least it's down. _Clint told himself.

"_Sir, shall I bother waking Mr. Stark?"_

Clint reached the hall table and stood there for a while, holding himself up with his hands. "Forget it. Let the guy sleep. I'll be gone by morning anyway." Clint said.

"_Very good, Agent Barton."_

Clint made it to the stairs. It took time. He slowly progressed downward in a difficult attempt to keep as much weight from bearing on his leg as possible. The injury, deep into the hip, he couldn't endure much longer. The deep ache throbbed enough to suspect a break. The agony he suffered on its onset dulled to a nuisance under the cascade of Tylenol he'd coaxed from an elderly woman at a truck stop in East L.A.

Barton eased down the stairs one step at a time. The railing helped. When he made it to the living room just the sight of the couch was enough to let that eternal exhaustion that dogged him take over. He mostly crawled the rest of the way to the couch until he was standing over it wondering how to get on. He shifted his lower body down, only to realize that flexing his leg did not agree with the fractured bone. He tried shuffling his upper half down, but that helped little. In the end, after a little indecision, he rolled on sideways and didn't stop until he lay stomach up. He bit a moan into his palm but made no sound.

Stark's couch was about as comfortable as a ply board back brace. Given most of the things he'd dealt with in his life on the road, to Clint it felt like a Holiday Inn Express in Istanbul. Sleep found him in only minutes

:(:):(:):

Bruce Banner woke from the sound of JARVIS speaking in the living room. His first inclination had him assuming Tony Stark had woken again, but given the man laid in the bed across from him, it wasn't likely. Bruce pushed himself up from the chair he'd fallen asleep in and rubbed a hand across his eyes. Discussing recurrent nightmares with Tony was the last thing he remembered. As he'd dealt such disturbances himself on occasion, it turned into a fruitful psychological discussion though somewhere in the midst of it both parties fell asleep.

If JARVIS wasn't having a conversation with Tony, then someone else must have arrived in the night. His next guess would have included Pepper, but she had left the day prior on business to Tokyo. Even a plane turned around in midair wouldn't see her back in Malibu so quickly. With a stifled yawn on his lips, Banner headed out to the living room to take a look around. Ever since his new and improved association with SHIELD, the thought of finding a hoard of green army men attacking in the night was more of a dream then a reality.

"_Good morning Dr. Banner, sorry to disturb you_." JARVIS greeted.

"Meh." Banner replied sleepily. "What's going on out here?"

Something crashed to his left and Banner turned quickly to see what had happened. What he found was a considerable surprise.

"Agent Barton?" Bruce said.

Clint Barton attempted a silent escape up the stairs without being observed. The trouble he encountered, beside not being very stealthy, is he tried climbing backwards by pulling himself up with his arms while seated on one step at a time. He'd managed to get to the first three before exhaustion and pain made him quit.

Clint looked up from his struggle to see the doctor. "Oh, Dr. Banner, I didn't expect you to be here."

Bruce approached, cautiously at first. It was a peculiar occurrence to see the SHIELD agent randomly in the middle of the night, especially given the state he was in. "I think that's mutual. What are you doing here?"

Clint shrugged his shoulders then seemed to regret it. "Tried to get a hold of the LA field office, but no such luck."

"It's down isn't it?" Banner replied.

Clint nodded. "Forgot. Lost my SHIELD contacts. Then I lost my mission brief. I need to check in at the Santa Barbra office but no one answered last night."

As Banner came closer he began to realize something amiss. Clint's face, flushed with exertion had a trace of pain hidden beneath the calm exterior. Given the fact that he was climbing the stairs with only the use of his hands, it didn't take a surgeon to understand he suffered some harm.

"Hey, you ok?"

"Fine. Had worse." Clint lied. "Not even bleeding."

"Yeah, but you look like you got hit by a truck or something." Bruce climbed the few stairs to kneel next to him.

"Not quite, but you are close." Clint replied.

Banner grabbed Clint around the chest and helped him to his feet, or would have if Clint could stand on both legs without collapsing. Surprised at the sudden weight on him, Bruce stumbled down a few steps which dragged Clint with him. They barely managed to right themselves before hitting the bottom landing. Clint reached out and grabbed the railing but his body twisted with Bruce's arms. He shifted his body weight to his broken leg and suddenly everyone within a three mile radius knew exactly how much pain Clint hid.

Banner readjusted, and hauled Clint single handedly to the couch. He had expected once they got there that he would be able to shift Clint into a more comfortable position, but that turned out to be more difficult than he thought. In the end it required nothing more than Clint falling into position to get him seated.

"Nicely done." Banner said. "So what did you do to yourself? And where did you come from anyway?"

Clint tried to push himself up, but gave up on the idea half way. "Classified. And don't take me wrong, but I don't think you're _that_ kind of doctor."

Bruce grinned and sat on the low coffee table to face the SHIELD assassin. "Actually I was exactly _that_ kind of doctor for two years in Calcutta before your lot came after me."

Clint seemed surprised.

"You weren't around when Agent Romanov came knocking." Bruce elaborated, and then regretted his words. He saw little of Barton since the attack on New York, only three weeks ago. Since then Banner had been working tirelessly with Tony in the lab while he assumed the SHIELD assassins had gotten back to their regular day jobs. Like harassing young children and chasing skirts. Banner spent little time with the real Clint Barton. They'd met at the mission debriefing and Tony's shwarma run. No one was particularly talkative then either.

"Yeah I wasn't around for a lot."

They sat uncomfortably together for a little while, staring at each other. When it became obvious Banner planned not to leave without getting an exam on his patient, Clint begrudgingly agreed.

"Tell no one of this." Clint said. "The last thing I need is Director Fury on my tail about getting a physical from Bruce Banner at Tony Stark's house. Even the sound of that is just wrong."

"Sure, ok." Bruce laughed. He readjusted the glasses on his nose and leaned down onto the floor with one knee. "Can you tell me what you broke? Or is that classified too?"

Clint gave him a wry look.

"If you don't tell me, then I'm just going to have to strip the rest of you naked and that story you don't want to tell SHIELD is going to get a lot weirder." The look Clint Barton gave him turned from admonishment to daggers and Bruce realized he walked a thin edge with the agent. He sighed. "Look, I can't diagnose you if you don't give me something. You could have head trauma, a ruptured spleen, a shattered pelvis. I won't know unless you say something."

Clint looked around, as if at any moment someone may appear and save him the shame of a physical exam but with no such savior on the horizon he decided at last that relenting may be the wiser decision. "Fine. My right leg."

Bruce leaned in, his hands doing all the work for him as he probed first the bare foot, then moved to the ankle. "Low or high?"

"High." Clint replied.

Bruce worked the ankle bones around in his trained hands, flexing and rotating until he was sure that no problem lay hidden there. Then he moved up to the calf and little by little assessed every bone. "JARVIS, give me some light here."

_"With pleasure, sir."_ The AI responded, and the room became brighter.

"How high?" he asked.

"Almost to my hip. Deep."

"How'd it happen?" When Clint wouldn't respond right away, Bruce altered tactics. "Did you fall on it? Did someone beat you with a baseball bat? Did it get twisted? Shut in a car door?"

"I got beat." Clint said flippantly.

While this wasn't necessarily a surprise given his line of work, the knowledge did give Bruce some pause. It must have shown on his face, since Clint willingly went on to elaborate.

"Mission got hairy. I was stuck in a tight spot. Torture devises have never been that effective but they do try. One guy propped my leg up, the other came down with a bat. Now I'm walking with a limp. Descriptive enough, Doc?"

Bruce paused at Clint's knees now. He tried to flex the joint, but the protest mounted from his patient made him stop. "You can feel all this I'm doing?"

Clint nodded, biting his lip.

"Have you ever had a broken leg?"

"Once."

"Which one?"

"Both, same time."

Bruce moved his hands up slower, feeling the swelling already beneath his fingers. "How long ago did this happen?"

"About two days."

Now Bruce stopped altogether. He looked seriously at Clint. "Two days?"

"Fine, four. But who's counting?"

The doctor inhaled and exhaled, repeating a few calming words to himself as he did so. He didn't feel the need to lose his temper completely, but working with agent Barton sure tried his composure. "Haven't you gotten any treatment since then? Local hospital, backwoods clinic, something? Are you taking anything like aspirin?"

"No, no, no, yes." Clint answered in sequence. "Don't know if you've ever been south of the border but there are some places that you just keep driving through even if you have an eyeball falling out of your head."

Bruce bobbed his head. "I have been south. That's where I did a lot of work for a while so yes I know what you mean. Did you walk here?"

"What? No, I didn't walk here. I stole a car and drove."

Bruce let that statement hang in the air a while without discovering anything to respond with. He moved on, finding where Clint's swelling worsened. He could tell the break was a doozy. Set right next to Clint's pelvis it looked like whoever had beat him did it in such a way that the head of his femur snapped off in the socket. At least, Bruce suspected that to be the case.

"Hate to tell you, but you've got something serious here." Bruce said. "I can't tell if the fracture's displaced or not, but it's pretty bad either way. Your leg's swollen like a bowling ball. Your circulation to your foot's not the best, and without getting a good look I can't tell if you've broken any important blood vessels. Given that you aren't dead yet, I would say your femoral artery is intact. But beyond that I can't say. Would it shame your sensibilities too much to ask you to drop those trousers? If you're going commando, then do me the favor and say no."

Clint tried to raise himself up, but Bruce pushed him right back down.

"Now, stop jittering around! If you do have shards rolling around in there it's only going to make things worse if you keep moving."

Clint stopped and folded his arms. "Look, I don't have time for this I'm a doctor not a physicist line. I still haven't checked in and I was due at the Santa Barbra office five days ago. If Director Fury doesn't hear from me now I don't have any one as a buffer to tell him I haven't gone AWOL or worse. I don't have time for this."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence and you might have time for this when you pass out after bleeding internally." Bruce said. He threw up his hands. "I don't know what I can do—Wait, maybe I do. Now stay there, and for heaven's sake don't get up or do something else stupid."

He stood and headed up the hall at the back of the house. As far as he could remember, Tony had left his cell phone on the nightstand. He hoped it had a contact number for SHIELD stowed away inside. When he walked in, Tony was still sleeping stretched out in his bed. He shuffled a little when he heard Bruce walk in. His eyes blinked open to look over.

"What's going on?" he asked bleary eyed.

"Nothing, go back to sleep." Bruce told him.

"I was asleep?"

"Yeah you were, now go back to sleep." Bruce grabbed Tony's phone off the nightstand and hit a few keys to bring it to life. The phone lock screen greeted him as an obstacle he hadn't planned on. He went back to Tony and shook his arm.

"Tony, put in your phone key for me."

Stark rolled over and stretched.

"Tony, come on, put your phone key in, I need to use it."

Stark reached out blindly and let Bruce put it in his hand. He flicked a few keys with his fingers and dropped it on the bed for Bruce to pick up.

"Told you," Tony said, "No 1-900 numbers."

"Very funny." Bruce said and walked out, shutting the door behind him. He made it back to the living room, flicking through the digital phone book to come up with something that screamed SHIELD. When "One-Eyed Scarface" appeared, he knew he'd found Tony's number for Director Nick Fury. But what he'd found in going to Tony's room he lost in leaving the living room. Clint Barton no longer sat on the couch waiting for him to return. Instead the assassin was attempting to get to the stairs again. He didn't have a lot of success. His good arm steadied his walk along the wall. His other hand pressed against his hip as if to keep his right leg from trying to fall off. Bruce let him walk for a minute, watching his progress and using it to determine the severity of the break. His initial assumption remained, however. It definitely looked like he'd broken his leg right by his hip joint. Clint made it to the stair railing. He looked up, wondering if he could chance the trip a second time. That's when Bruce decided he'd seen enough.

"Will you get back on that couch before I strap you there?" He said.

Clint spun around in surprise, which only managed to topple him off balance until he hit the floor on his side.

Bruce dialed the number on Stark's phone as he walked over to the downed assassin. He passed the handset over. "It's Fury, check in already and then I'm taking you to a hospital."

"I'm not going to a hos—"

"Yes you are, and if you don't like it you can tell Fury all about it." Bruce replied.

It didn't take long for the Director's voice to appear on the other end of the phone. Even this early in the morning, a willing call from Tony Stark's cell was important enough to get the attention of anyone. Clint gave Bruce a begrudging glare while he spoke into the handset "Director, its Barton. Checking in."

"_Well it's about time, Hell I thought I'd finely gotten rid of you." _Fury complained.

"Not so much—"

Banner grabbed the phone before Clint could finish and walked away a few paces with it in his hands. From the floor Clint protested bitterly.

"Director Fury? Hello, it's Bruce. I've got Agent Barton with me here at Stark's place Malibu. He's suffered a severe fracture to his leg and won't be much use to anyone unless I get him checked out."

"_He's not much use to me laid up." _Fury pointed out.

"Understand that, but I'm sure you can make do." Bruce ended the call and turned back to Clint who'd rolled over onto his stomach and did his best to army crawl after Banner.

Bruce grinned. "Looks like I got you a free ticket. I'm going to go steal one of Tony's cars and then I'm taking you to the hospital." He crouched down beside Clint, passing the phone back to him. "If you know what's good for you, you'll go willingly. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

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please review!


	3. Chapter 2

Here's chapter 2!

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**Moment in Mexico  
**

Chapter 2

Bruce left Clint to think about his threat without attempting to pick him up again. Rather than deal with Clint's stolen car in the parking lot, Bruce figured taking one of Tony's became a more prudent plan. He considered buying his own car soon, given he considered actually setting up some roots in this place, but with his constant globetrotting between Stark Tower in New York and the mansion in Malibu, Tony wouldn't hear of it. SHIELD awarded him a minor retention stipend and a much more substantial pay came by way of Stark's R and D department so he could afford something if he chose it.

Bruce reentered Tony's room. The man remained in bed but he came around to consciousness since first being disturbed. Bruce fished around the side table for a set of keys. Most of the fancier cars had their own remote starts and corresponding keys locked in a safe downstairs, but Bruce didn't feel like working the lock at this time of the morning.

"What's going on?" Tony asked.

"Nothing, I've got it." Banner told him. "Where are your keys?"

"You leaving?"

"Just for a bit. Where are they?"

Tony pointed to the closet door. Banner pulled it open to meet a wall of woman's shoes on one side and a dresser beneath a row of curtain rods on the other.

"Top drawer." Tony said. "And honestly, if you called yourself a lady of the night, do try and find a clean hotel and don't get frisky in the back of my car."

Banner found the keys and slipped them into his pocket. He noticed then that he slept most of the night in his clothes from the day before. He smoothed out his t-shirt and fixed his pants.

"Bruce?"

The doctor looked up from his primping. Tony sat up in bed now. "Really, what's going on?"

Since it wasn't necessarily a secret, Bruce didn't feel he was doing a disservice from saying the truth. "Agent Barton's out in the living room. Seems he had some. I'm going to take him over to the hospital to get his leg looked at."

Tony threw off his blanket and grabbed his shirt off the floor.

"Stark, I've got it. Go back to bed. We'll be back later today."

"No, I'm up. Is he all right?"

Bruce knew that once Tony had his mind set on something there little would stop him. So, he grabbed a pair of pants out of the closet and some shoes and handed them to Tony.

"I'll need help walking him down to the garage I think. He's got a broken leg."

"He-What?" Tony pulled on his second shoe but stopped before going further. His shock was evident.

"Yeah, seems the mission didn't go to plan. Some guys grabbed him, broke his leg. Didn't say why. Not saying anything really. If you still wanna come I could use a hand getting him to the car."

Tony grabbed a jacket and headed into the living room where he found Clint laying against the staircase. He was pale, sweating some and definitely in pain which left Tony to wonder how the agent even got into his house, how long he'd been there, and with a leg like that how he made it to Malibu at all.

"Hey, look who the cat dragged in. You know, I thought I told Banner no strays." Tony said approaching.

Clint glared at Bruce. "I never agreed to go. I definitely did not agree to go with him."

"Oh, behave Talon Toes. I'm here to help move you. Besides, it's my car. I drive."

"Then I'll take my car." Clint retorted.

"Your car is stolen. No, we are not taking that. In fact I'll probably have Tony push it off the cliff before some drug lord shows up to claim it. Tony, give me a hand." Banner took one side and Stark the other as they got Clint back up on his feet. Despite all of the agent's protests, Bruce could see a visible relief in him. He might hate being handled like an invalid, but it was better being here among two acquaintances then out on his own. Just the short trip to the garage took a considerable time for the three of them and a toll on Clint. Bruce, being slightly taller than the other two, gave him a disproportionate amount of Clint's not inconsiderable weight. While Barton may have been an ordinary human, his build resembled a weightlifter. When they reached the door to the garage, Tony had to shift more of Clint over to accessed the data pad and scan his hand. The door slid aside with a hiss and the three entered.

Clint looked around at the new area. He'd done minor recon at the Stark mansion a year ago for Coulson so he had a good idea of where he was. But he hadn't ever been in this inner sanctum of Tony's home workshop. A massive circular collider rested disassembled in one corner. There were various cars, some in a state of construction. Engine parts and carburetors dotted around their open hoods with grease spots soaking into the floor. The room had seen better days if the numerous patched up holes and human sized concrete marks were any indication of use.

"Nice car." Clint commented as he was carried over to Tony's Mercedes. "What, not going to let me take the Shelby out?"

"That roadster is my baby, and I melted her engine. So no." Tony replied. He pulled open the back seat door. "And don't get any ideas of breaking into my lab some day because my robot will kill you."

Clint found it hard to tell if Tony told the truth or not. Surely if he had the ability to build the Marc 1 Iron Man suit out of desert scraps, he could design something reminiscent of Thor's Destroyer. He leaned more towards joking, but did take the warning for what it was.

"Ease in." Bruce told him. "I don't want you moving more than you have to. You still have the chance to bleed to death on us."

"Thanks, mom." Clint replied. He pulled himself, painfully, into the back set and slid himself backwards until his back rested against the far door and his legs stretched in front of him. He bent his knees in order to get the door closed.

Tony got into the driver's seat and started the car up. "Of all places in the country and you showed up here. I'm touched, really."

Clint groaned. "Am I going to listen to this the whole way?"

"He could either crash your place or sleep in the car. Do you know which I would pick?" Bruce commented, pulling his seatbelt on. "I'm glad you came in, Agent Barton. I'd feel better if you got looked at. I know it's inconvenient."

"That's one word for it. I also like kidnapping," Clint replied. "I've been going fine since New York. Fury prefers me off the Helicarrier."

Bruce shot a glance toward Tony, whose hands had stiffened on the steering wheel. Since the Chitauri invasion, the Iron Man had difficulty coping with his own self-sacrifice. Mentioning the attack tended to have undesirable, post traumatic results. For now he appeared under control, so Bruce turned his attention backward. "He doesn't blame you for any of that, does he? Dr. Selvig, even me, Loki had going."

Clint's vision was fixed outside the window to the dark night they'd driven out of the garage into. The rain still came heavily down. He'd left the driver's door open to the Torino. "I couldn't tell you what he thinks."

"Seen much of the little leather liar, my ex-employee?" Tony asked.

"Tash's been in Russia since the Kremlin attack." Clint said.

Bruce's interest peaked. "Kremlin? I saw that. Does she know what happened? I know SHIELD sent Steve over to try and mull things in case the US was named in the attack."

Clint remained silent. He looked out the window still. "Classified." he said after a while. "Go to West Hill Hospital if you can."

"Hotter nurses there?" Tony asked.

The car hit a rut in the rode, jostling Clint enough to make him cry out. Bruce turned again to see the agent had gone white. His hands moved reflexively to either side of his leg to keep it from moving excessively.

"Slow down a little, Tony." Bruce whispered.

"Keep your eyes on the road Stark, you trying to kill me?" Clint growled.

"He speaks!" Tony declared. "No backseat driving. You aren't Daisy. So what ex-boyfriend got hold of you? Let me just ask was she worth it?"

"Pepper's been away a while. Forgive his perverted mind." Bruce said. To Tony he added, "He got the crap kicked out of him. Give him a break."

"Think someone already did." Tony shot back. "What I want to know is how he drove all the way to my place with one leg. And how did you get into my house anyway?"

Clint's teeth ground against one another. He eased back against the door behind him but it found it difficult to get comfortable. "JARVIS let me in. And _please_, stop trying to hit every rut in the road."

"Hey, what did I say about back-seat driving?"

"Anthony-"

Stark flicked a look over to Bruce. He could count on one finger how many times Bruce had ever referred to him by that name.

The doctor whispered privately again. "Take it easy, he's looking rough."

Tony noticeably slowed, easing the Mercedes halfway over the white line and off the ridge that was grinding his tires. He glanced in the rearview mirror to see Clint slowly unwind.

"Classified? Sounds sexy. Is that what they're feeding all the government agency stooges now?"

Clint didn't answer. He leaned more heavily against the door, wondering to himself whether it would open arbitrarily and dump him on the highway. So far no such luck. The last thing he wanted was to be in this car, going to any hospital. He wanted a shower. A proper bed and a trip to the apartment he left abandoned in Atlanta wouldn't be too much to ask for.

"Is it too late to change my mind on this?" Clint asked.

"Yes." Bruce replied.

"I'll give you a bargain." Tony piped in. "If you can beat me in a mile run, which I real hate doing, then you can leave and steal another car and run away."

"Done."

"Can I say how disturbed I am that you answered so fast?"

Bruce sighed. "It's because you didn't stipulate whether or not he was allowed to maim you first."

"Then that's just mean and I win on principle."

:(:):(:):

It didn't take long for the car to finally pull in to the West Hill hospital. By the time they reached it, the morning had only shifted to four-am. The emergency room seemed relaxed enough, the rain keeping most of the typical party-harders from serious trouble though a few car accidents had the attendants busy but not overly so. Tony pulled around to the emergency entrance to let Clint out. He opened his own door, braving the driving rain to help Clint to his feet. Bruce waited in the alcove to walk Clint in.

"Here we are! First stop, pointy things and rubber gloves. Get out and get a rectal." Tony hooked his arms beneath Clint's and pulled him up off the back seats. Contrary to the first journey to the car, Clint was markedly more exhausted this time. He helped little in his own escape and relied on Tony to get him to Banner.

"Hey, bird, you doing ok?" Tony whispered.

"Don't want to go." Clint replied.

"I got that when you threatened to stab me in the leg then beat me in a foot race, but give me a hand here."

Bruce noticed the struggle and walked over. He shouldered Clint from Tony's arms and hauled him into the ER. This time there no discussion came. Clint was going whether he wanted to or not.

Tony stood beside his car, watching them walk. This detour didn't exactly fit into his morning plans, especially after finally getting to sleep. But he supposed if anything was going to wake him up during the night, he preferred to be at service to . . . What exactly? Agent Barton wasn't necessarily a friend. For the majority of their mutual acquaintance Barton had been a slave of an evil Asgardian, murdering and maiming as orders dictated. So what contributed to the current interest in his care? _Guilt._ Tony said to himself. He got into his car and pulled around to the guest parking. He wondered if SHIELD knew their little fledgling was out of the coup and into a hospital. After what he did for Loki and proving the damage he could do just as a one-man-wrecking-crew Tony didn't imagine SHIELD gave Clint too loose a leash to choke on.

He returned inside, pocketing his ring of keys and met the two men at the counter of the waiting room check in. Clint fished through his pockets for something but remained mum as to what that something was. Obviously he didn't find it.

"I thought- I thought I at least had my hospital contacts." Clint muttered, still pulling the linings out of his pockets.

He looked like a tired wet blanket with a broken leg. Seeing him in the light like this made Tony realize why Banner wanted to help him.

Tony walked over. "What's up? Lost your lollipop?"

Clint said. "No, I lost my health clearance. Agent Issued. I thought I salvaged it, but I must not have."

The nurse behind the station looked like the last thing she wanted to do was listen to Clint figure out his problems. She tapped her red nails in succession along the table top and slid a handful of paperwork over to him. "Front form's your health info, second form's your insurance info, third form's the disclaimer, on the back-"

Clint pushed the paperwork back to her. "Is Kim here? Nurse Kim T-something?"

The girl raised her eyebrows. "Is this a social call?"

Clint gave her an exacerbated look. "Does this look like a social call? If I was bleeding and in cardiac arrest I would have Nurse Kim-whatever's-name tattooed to my chest. Is she here?"

Bruce whispered to him. "Clint, what are you doing?"

"The agency has certain contacts in place in case of mishaps. I need that nurse." Clint explained. "If you are forcing me to be do this then we are doing it my way."

"Fine." Tony said, overhearing them. He shouted across the entire nurse station. "Hello! Iron Man standing right here, looking for a girl named Kim- I said Iron Man, _the_ Tony Stark standing right here with a couple of Avengers and we are looking for Nurse Kim!"

Clint looked at Bruce. "I changed my mind, can you just let me crawl under a rock? Or die?"

"I'll crawl under with you." Bruce told him.

Clint turned to leave but Bruce grabbed his elbow and spun him back.

Most of the waiting room was on their feet now trying to get a look at the three men standing at the nurse station. Thankfully it did attract the attention of one familiar face. Clint had seen her picture before in some mission debrief. Even if he didn't remember her last name, he knew that this was Kim. He leaped on the opportunity to grab her.

"Miss? Agent, here. I don't have creds. Have you been debriefed for this?"

She seemed shocked by all the excitement but after a minute to collect herself she nodded furiously and came around the counter. Nail Polish barked a fit, but she went ignored as the frantic Nurse Kim led the party of three away. She spoke hurriedly as they went.

"I'm sorry, they told me this might happen, but I never had to actually do this. Can you walk- Wait here, let me get a wheel chair."

"No! I would rather be carried through this place on Stark's back then be wheeled around."

"Uh, that was never provided for an option." Tony said.

With Banner supporting him, the three went down the hall until the nurse found an abandoned exam room. She opened the door and showed them in. Two beds lay side by side with a small curtain strung between. The nurse pushed the curtain back and indicated the bed.

"Please, make yourself comfortable." She said.

Tony moved to the far one and lay down with his hands behind his head. Clint eyed the spare bed but didn't move to sit down. The nurse stood there in the uncomfortable silence for a minute, looking starry-eyed at the three, then realized she had a job to do. She rushed out the door to grab a new file then ran back inside with a pen in her hands and a clipboard.

"Sorry, I just- new-" She waved her hand as if to try and dismiss everything she just said. "So, I just need basic information. Age?"

Clint told her.

"Patient ID?"

He sighed, trying to think. "Uh- last time I used that I was in Sudan. Just put A dash CB Care of A dash N R. That will get it into the right hands."

She scribbled at the top of the file and read absentmindedly through the more tedious information. "A-C.B. Age, male, Priority one? Am I saying that right?"

Clint nodded.

"Sexually active?"

This one Tony jumped to answer. "Not currently. That would be awkward for all four of us."

Without thinking, the girl wrote that down. Clint glared at Stark.

"Primary complaint?'

Now Banner stepped in to answer. "High femoral fracture, Right leg. Considerable inflammation and decreased circulation to extremity. Four day duration. Aspirin doses on board. Will that be enough?"

"I just have to take some quick readings." She grabbed some medical instruments and went through the general work up. His blood pressure was low, temperature low, heart rate high, respiratory high.

She nodded and wrote at the same time. "Any additional questions the doctor will be sure to ask. I'll get him immediately." She excused herself, hanging the chart on the door as she went. Only a second later she rushed back in with a gown in her hands. "Sorry, sorry. I Forgot I need you to get into this. Thanks!" and away she went again.

Clint looked at the backless hospital gown as if it was a rabid dog meant to be shot. "I am not wearing that!"

Bruce picked it up and unfolded the gown. "Yes you are. How do you think they're going to x-ray you? With your pants on? I thought you said you'd broken a leg before, don't you remember how this goes?"

Clint snatched the garment from him and threw it at Stark who giggled incessantly on the other bed. "I did break my legs before. I was sixteen and I was thrown off a trapeze and left for dead. I woke up with a busted everything and didn't have to suffer through this part."

"Oh my God."

Bruce and Clint looked over at Tony.

Stark's jaw dropped in a playful expression. "You were a carny? Oh this is too rich. Were you the bearded lady?"

Clint pivoted and hobbled for the door. "I'm done. I'll drive to SHIELD on my own and just hide in a basement for the next six weeks. I'm not doing this."

Bruce picked up a handful of pens off the counter and threw them at Tony. "Thanks for the support! Clint, wait! Stop moving a minute and just let them-"

Clint pushed the door open and tried to make his, rather slow, escape but suddenly he stopped. Bruce's hand reached his shoulder to keep him from running out, but he wasn't resisted against. Clint's hand rested on his hip, as if trying to stem the pain, but now there was something else as well. His body shivered. Clint's face looked down, then back to the others.

"Bruce?" he said the name quietly but anyone could hear the sudden panic infused in it.

Bruce's heart dropped.

Time sped up immeasurably. Clint sank on his weakened knees and hit the floor. Tony pushed up from the bed in confusion as Bruce called for Tony and a doctor. Together they removed Clint's shoes then yanked his pants off and discarded them in a corner. Bruce screamed for a doctor again. Clint's leg swelled higher, but worse than that was the sudden red starbursts pooling beneath his skin. His foot went cold, his pulse dropped, and he gasped in fast shallow breaths between his cries of fright and pain.

"What's going on?" Tony asked terrified. "Bruce what's happening?!"

Banner grabbed Tony by the arm and shoved him into the hall. "Get me a doctor fast, he's going to bleed to death!"

Stark was up like a shot and gone.

"I told you not to move." Banner said quietly, "Clint I told you."

"Hurts." Clint managed through his pain.

"I know." Bruce said. His hands clamped down on Clint's thigh, trying desperately to stave the blood pouring out of his femoral artery. "You need surgery, now, or you are going to die. Do you understand me?"

Clint's left hand covered his face, trying to keep his head from swimming. His other clamped onto Bruce's wrist like a lifeline.

"Clint, talk to me!"

The SHIELD agent looked at him. His eyes were full of terror. "Don't want to-" He didn't say the last word as if to say it meant it may actually come true. It had been a long time since he was scared, truly scared.

"You're not." Bruce told him with such conviction it could only be the truth.

The world sped up again. Suddenly the room flooded with doctors. In a group effort, they lifted Clint onto the gurney and hooked him to ten monitors at a time. Within a few minutes he had two catheters in, a trachea team waiting to intubate him, and a knock-out cocktail swimming through his veins. The surgical room was called. Clint wheeled out and Bruce and Tony were left in the wreckage of the exam room with nothing but Clint's torn off clothes and the spare bed.

"What just happened?" Tony asked breathlessly. His eyes fixed on the hall they'd taken Clint down. He had a terrible fear Clint would never again come back from that hall. It was like watching a beloved pet take that final long walk.

"Fracture." Bruce told him. "I warned Clint not to do too much. When he walked away, maybe even before, it must have finally cut the artery."

"He going to be ok?"

Bruce lifted his hands and let them drop. "I don't know, Tony. I really don't."

* * *

Please review!


	4. Chapter 3

Here's chapter 3!

* * *

**Moment in Mexico  
**

Chapter 3

Orthopedic surgery on a stable patient, under normal conditions, could take anywhere between one hour to twelve. Surgery on a massive internal bleed with a patient threatening to die on the table could take appreciatively longer if it the bone is set at the same time of the surgery to save his life. Given these variables, and the overwhelming third possibility that Clint could die at any moment, Tony and Bruce were left to wonder whether they should stay in the waiting room or return to Tony's mansion. Five am approached quickly.

The hospital cafeteria opened around three a.m. for the nightly shift change. Their hunger reached a stage where even subpar food seemed welcome. They slipped through the hospital wings, taking care to avoid the majority of the waiting areas. Most of the staff by that point knew Avengers were in the building and though Tony didn't mind a little early morning PR Bruce preferred his peace and quiet.

A few tables full of scrub-clad nurses and doctors dotted the cafeteria room. Most looked up at the newcomers and whispered as they went by. Some of the braver ones stood to meet them. Typical for his style Tony gave them welcome but brief attention before following Bruce down the buffet line. Together they took a table in a corner and sat across from each other. They ate in silence. Their stomachs didn't end up being as empty as they initially considered which left most of their plates full.

"Well, this was unexpected." Bruce said. "I'm sorry, Tony, I should have just let you sleep."

Tony waved his hand dismissively. "What else could I be doing right now that didn't include a SHIELD carny bleeding to death in a hospital? Hmm, don't answer that. There are a substantial amount of other things I could be doing right now."

"I'd feel bad leaving. I'm not big on this," he gestured around the room. "You know? Been in one too many institutions. It might get a little busy with everyone recognizing us."

"You want to go?" Tony asked.

Bruce shook his head despite the indecision.

"What are we going to do if we stay? Robin Hood crashes my place in the middle of the morning, sleeps on my couch, and leaves a stolen car in my parking lot. Then we drive him to the hospital he doesn't want to go to, and when he tries to leave he collapses and dies." At Bruce's pointed disapproval, Tony amended his statement. "Collapses, fine, but you saw what I did. What do you think is going to happen?"

"What's your deal with him?" Bruce asked. "Sure you're constantly at me with sharp pointy things and riding my case, but you haven't given him a good word the entire time. What do you have against him?"

Tony got up from the table. He'd eaten none of his food. "Let's go. We're not doing anything here."

"Tony, I asked—"

"I know what you asked, and this is me not answering."

Bruce tilted his head. A peculiar summation occurred to him that for any normal person could never exist. But for Tony Stark, his thought retained a degree of plausibility. "Wait a minute . . . you like him."

"Thanks for the suggestion, but I think Pepper would disapprove of a relationship."

Bruce stood up as well. He knew that he was right and no matter what he was going to make Tony see that too. "You keep on him, but you _do_ like him. Wait a minute, didn't you refit his arrows after the attack?"

Tony threw his arms in the air. "I did nothing to anything on that SHIELD suit."

"You did, I remember that part. He had a mission in Russia. You just suddenly decided to go to Moscow for some reason you refused to explain and Pepper didn't let you go. Then the Kremlin blew."

"I'm not listening to this- lah lah lah!" Tony stuck his fingers in his ears as he headed for the hospital parking lot. Bruce dogged his heels, refusing to let the matter just drop.

"Tony, you heard what Fury said at the debriefing. I know you pretended to be on your cell phone the whole time, but you heard him all the same. Hawkeye was never supposed to be part of the group. They didn't even consider him. What are you trying to get at? Will you just— Tony stop a second."

They were outside. Bruce put his hands on Tony's shoulder to stop him. Stark shrugged him off but at least he wasn't running from him now. They looked at one another. The rain pounded down without sign of letting up, casting the last shrill droll needed to turn a once perfect rest into a whirlwind of misfortune. The small alcove entrance shielded them from the brunt of the storm. Even in the dim light from the overhead, Bruce could see the anguish now on Stark's face.

"That make you feel better?" Tony asked him. "To know we were friends? Yeah, Clint's a jerk. I am too. He plays for the team, I don't. He told me he was going to Russia, I offered to help. Apparently I don't do covert very well, so he refused. He asked me for help in Mexico and I told him no. If Clint didn't need me before he didn't need me now. How was I to know he would end up here like this?"

Of all the things he expected to come out of Stark's mouth he did not anticipate that. "Tony—"

"I don't want to just stand here waiting for them to come out and tell me he's dead and that it was my fault for telling him no. I don't want that, Bruce. I'm leaving. Are you coming?" Tony didn't wait for an answer. He went into the sea of reporters flocking around the emergency entrance alone. He didn't stop to speak to anyone or to take a publicity shot. They followed him to his car with some breaking off to question Bruce in the alcove.

Bruce could read the subtle cues in his friend. Tony wanted to be alone, but more than that he wanted Bruce to stay with Clint because Tony couldn't. Guilt. That was the first time Banner had seen that emotion on his friend. Bruce stayed in the alcove, watching the rain fall as Tony drove away. He knew once Stark stopped beating himself up he'd be back. For now, Tony needed his space. Bruce could hold down the fort until he came around again. He smiled at the reporters but didn't offer any insight into the hidden hospital patient they protected.

:(:):(:):

"And this guy, he like totally bought this. He is more emotionally unstable then me, I swear, but the team was nice. Inexperienced. I almost died like six-no seven. More like seven times."

Bruce nodded, pulling the recovery room door closed as he listened to Clint come around from anesthesia. His primary physician stood beside the monitors to take down his vital signs. The minute Clint's mouth started going, the doctor shot a frantic look at Bruce.

"State secrets," Bruce told him jokingly. "You are hereby sworn to secrecy lest you face a firing squad as a traitor to the country. Actually, you should probably just go to keep yourself from being further compromised."

The doctor high tailed it. Bruce smiled and sat down beside Clint.

"MI-6, IMF, Black Cobra, CIA, they're all the same. You know I've worked with each one of them?" Clint went on dreamily. Bruce took solace in the fact that they were alone. He could safely assume that Clint's dreary but running mouth would not bode well if he ever happened to be captured on mission and spilled every bit of know-how of internal information.

"All of those? You must globe trot a bunch."

"IMF. Kremlin. That was a mess. Do you know _you_ almost died? Like twelve days ago? Big bomb. Stolen Russian nuclear codes. I was burned by that mission. Mexico was a little worse. Do you know what I like about Natasha? She's got the most amazing eyes. Hair's ok and the ways she can kill a person are just— it's a thing to watch. I shouldn't say it."

Bruce nodded as if he was listening intently. Frankly he wanted to know nothing of Clint's undercover activities. The pretend paranoia he'd instilled in the good doctor wore into him as well.

"I like you, Bruce." Clint said. "I like the Hulk just a little bit more. Nothing against you he's just . . . comical or something. I don't know. Wasn't Tony here? These drugs are great, you know. I think I may stay here a while."

Bruce patted his arm. "Tony'll be back. He had to get some things squared away yesterday. Do you remember what happened? To your leg?"

Clint's web of medication lifted for a moment. He looked very seriously at Bruce. "That's classified."

"Clint, you just sat there and told me that you helped blow up the Kremlin, that you were on some secret mission somewhere and-"

"And what?" Clint demanded. "You can't use any of that against me. This conversation is over." He eased back down on the bed with his arms crossed, straining the various lines of fluids.

Bruce sat back in his chair, surprised, to say the very least, at the strange change the conversation had taken. "Clint, it's Bruce Banner. Avengers? SHIELD?"

Clint rolled onto his side, giggling to himself in the fog of medication. "Classified means I won't tell you."

"Clint it's Bruce—"

He smiled, the advent of morphine and anesthesia in his veins keeping him from breaking apart. "I _will not tell you_. Don't you get it? Do what you want, I'm not telling you how to find Stark! You can kill me first."

There was a knock at the door. Bruce felt torn between staying by the bed with his hand on Clint's arm and getting up to see who was there. In the end he got up and cracked it open. A man stood there in a white coat, familiar from the brief conversation Bruce had with him an hour ago when Clint was taken out of surgery. Orthopedic specialist. He wanted to check on the patient.

"He's talking," Bruce told him before he allowed the man in. "You need to forget everything he says. Understand?"

The doctor seemed unsure of the strange request. "Doctor-patient privilege bars me from—"

Bruce interjected. At first he was just joking with the poor guy before but after what Clint just revealed to him, Bruce felt some degree of severity due. "This has nothing to do with that. You need to know that this is important."

Officially sworn to secrecy, the orthopedist agreed. Bruce let him into the room to check on Clint. The doctor pulled up the chart and picked a pen from his pocket. His eyes glazed over the vital readings. "So, how are we doing? Getting a little more conscious there, sir? I'm sorry they didn't give us a name to go by. Do you know why you're here?"

The mask of anesthetic lifted again and Clint seemed fully conscious. "A-C.B. Recovering. Injury. Surgery."

"That's correct. You lost a lot of blood, so you've been given number of transfusions. We were able to repair the damage to your femur, but recovery may take a while." As the doctor spoke he moved to Clint's side to check on the leg, his pulse, the darkening bruises, and the reflexes of his face.

"Long recovery." Clint parroted.

"How's the pain levels?"

"Adequately suppressed, sir."

"Good. If you need anything just alert one of the nurses, all right? I'll be back to check on you. Your medical history is sealed, I'm assuming that means you have no adequate adverse reactions to medication. It's almost a little late to ask now, but is there anything you can think of that we should know?"

"Never had morphine, sir. Most things don't agree with me. No Oxycodone. No Vicadin. Bad reactions. Never tried morphine."

"What reactions did you have before?"

"Went pale, got hives, threw up blood."

The doctor took a note down on his tablet. "Got it. Definitely not going to put you on those then. No morphine though?"

"Doctor's never wanted to try it."

He shrugged. "Can't blame them. How is your pain typically managed?"

"Not."

"Well that's not going to be a good option in this case. I'm going to cut down your morphine for now, if you start feeling sick let one of the nurses know and we'll take you off it. If you're feeling hungry we've got some saltines waiting to try out first. Keep it light for now." The doctor finished his remarks on the form, said a goodbye to Bruce and stepped out.

"Tired." Clint said when he was gone. The agent pressed his face against his arm, hiding his eyes from the light. "Wouldn't let me sleep. Want to crash."

Bruce sat down again, pulling his chair closer to Clint's bed. "Go ahead and sleep. I'll wait around."

"Don't make me talk." Clint whispered, letting his body relax. "Why didn't Stark come?"

"He had to finish a few things. That's all."

"I wanted him to come."

Bruce had the impression Clint stopped talking about Tony being absent when he awoke and instead this became another half conversation of what happened between them. He made a mental note to give Stark a call once Clint settled. "He'll be here soon. Try to relax."

:(:):(:):

Tony missed the first seven calls from the hospital. The minute he pulled into the garage, he ended up not leaving. Instead he spent the past day fiddling with a few of his car engines. Tuesday he made the early morning drive to the hospital with Clint in the back seats of his car. Now Wednesday, Tony had done little to leave his lab. Pepper called with a company update. He didn't take the call, giving JARVIS some excuse to give to her. Then he muted his AI, allowing Tony to work uninterrupted throughout the day and the proceeding night. If Banner wanted to leave the hospital, he could take a cab or call Happy.

Tony started out at his desk, and then moved to his full lab floor displays, and then he ended up by the Shelby. The hood was off within five minutes and the engine disassembled in another ten. There Tony remained, soldering, refitting, tweaking, and customizing until he recreated an engine virtually from scratch. When the eight calls from the hospital came over, Tony was asleep in the front seat of the Shelby. Taking a prerogative, JARVIS overrode his command system and softly roused Tony from his sleep.

_"Sir, a call from Dr. Banner, shall I patch him through?"_

Tony grunted by way of response.

_"I will take that as a yes. Dr. Banner, you are on the overhead."_

Tony rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hand to wake himself up. He checked the time to see it was late Wednesday morning. Had he eaten anything Tuesday?

"_Tony? You there?"_

Tony groaned again and pushed open the door to his car to climb out. "Ya-huh. What's going on?"

_"Figured you'd want to know Agent Barton's out of surgery. He's asking for you. He's worried you aren't here, Tony."_

The part-time Iron Man woke fully. "Me? What? He's alive?"

_"Get yourself over here to see him and stop being so dramatic. Pick me up a coffee on your way, and breakfast. You're buying. I've been trying to call you all morning"_

Tony had his keys still in his pocket. He grabbed his wallet off the work bench and went back to his Mercedes. "Ok, got it. On my way."

_"Next time we have an injured, near-death house guest you get to play nurse."_

"Fair offer." Tony said.

_"Don't leave yet!"_ Bruce shouted as he heard the sound of Tony's car starting_. "Go into your closet and get me another set of clothes. And take a shower. You probably stink and we've both been wearing the same thing for three days."_

"Who's the needy one now?"

_"Don't forget my coffee."_

:(:):(:):

Tony parked in the hospital lot and stacked his two cups of coffee together in order to get out. He grabbed his bag of food for Banner before shutting the car door with his foot. While passing the man in the security booth, he offered a little wave before ducking his head passed the clambering paparazzi. He walked in through the emergency entrance.

"Tony Stark." He announced to the surprised girl behind the counter as he blew past. Without bothering to sign in, he started up the hall to find Clint's room.

"Sir! Excuse me, sir!'

Tony ignored her and continued on his way. Bruce gave him a rough idea of the recovery room's location, if he followed the instructions properly. He got turned around once and ran into a security guard who nearly threw him out. Tony bribed him with an autograph, after which the appreciative man led back in the correct direction until he ended up outside Clint's door.

Tony had to remind himself that Barton lived. Not only that, but Clint asked for him specifically. He repeated the words to himself again before pushing open the door to walk in. Clint lay on his side in bed with two thin pillows clutched between his arms. His head pressed against the bed railing, apparently enjoying how cool it felt against his skin. His eyes opened for a moment to see Tony walk in but closed soon after recognizing him. At some point a nurse had wrestled the archer into a hospital gown. His right leg was on top of the left. A mound of red gauze was tied across the wound.

Bruce stretched up from his chair and took one of the coffee cups from Tony along with the bag of food. "He's hurting." Bruce whispered. "He woke up from anesthesia and was fine for a bit then all of a sudden it hit him. Morphine made him sick. They took a while flushing his system out. You should say something to him."

"Say something like what?" Tony asked.

"Friendly-like." Bruce replied.

Tony walked over, taking Bruce's chair and scraping it to the front of Hawkeye. The agent's eyes opened some in curiosity, but he didn't move. The lines on his face were a powerful tell about his condition.

"What's up? You're acting like someone sawed your leg open or something." Tony asked playfully.

Clint grunted. "Lemme be."

"Coffee?" Tony had gotten it for himself, but the pathetic look Clint gave him was enough to make him part with the only hot drink he'd had in over a day. Clint looked at the offering as he debated.

"Just take some small sips." Bruce said. He'd gone into the hall for a second chair and returned to place it beside Stark. "I don't want you setting your stomach off again."

It was difficult to hide the longing in his eyes. He hadn't had a mug of hot anything in weeks.

"Here." Tony pulled the straw out of someone's left over soda and removed the top from his coffee. He added the straw and held it close enough for Clint to drink it. "Not that I want you spewing on me, Robin, but you look like you need a coffee."

With both of the men staring at him, refusing to drink it became less of an option. Clint didn't object as he slowly drank. After a few greedy sips Tony pulled it away and set the cup aside to see how the first bit would settle.

"I fixed the Shelby." Tony said.

"You what?"

"The car, I fixed it. You're not allowed to drive it, but you can ride in it."

To that Clint cracked a little smile. "Took me a sec to know what you were talking about. I was out for a day. You fixed it in a day?"

"It wasn't that bad."

"You melted the engine, didn't you?"

"And I fixed it, what's the big deal? Move on."

Bruce sat back, chowing down on his Burger King Breakfast sandwich while enjoying this peculiar exchange between Clint and Tony. He was curious to see how they were going to act now that they were back together. Actually seeing them in action proved more interesting than an episode of the Maury show. Clint could have given him a harder time if he felt better.

"Nurses treating you like a human being?" Tony asked.

"Think they're a little scared of me. Or Bruce."

Bruce shrugged as if he didn't know what they referred to.

"I can't possibly imagine why." Tony grabbed the coffee and held it closer. Clint sipped it. "You hungry?"

Clint shook his head no after Tony removed the coffee again. "Didn't end well. Breakfast."

"I don't think I'd call three saltine crackers and some gatorade breakfast." Bruce said.

"When can you leave?" Tony asked.

Bruce answered. "Not for a few days. They want to make sure he produces enough of his own blood before he goes. They don't consider him out of the woods yet."

"This is Malibu, there are no woods." Tony replied. "Let's spring him loose. The Strategic Humans in Elegant Lady Dresses aren't coming to collect him or something?"

Clint cocked a smile, but his eyes closed again. His knuckles whitened from where they gripped the pathetic pillows he'd been supplied with. If he felt better, he would have laughed but he had no strength in him for that.

"Can't they give him something other than morphine?" Tony asked Banner.

"Apparently Clint's been through this ringer before. Being an agent he's used to scraps and he hasn't had much luck with pain medications. He's on something new. It's upsetting his stomach. They started him with a lower dose given how poor he did with the morphine." Bruce explained.

"Well he looks like he's going through labor." Tony complained.

"Thanks." Clint said.

"That was not meant as a compliment. Let me go try and scare someone up, this is ridiculous." Tony handed the coffee to Bruce and left to find a white coat.

Bruce and Clint looked at each other.

"Did you tell him?" Clint asked.

Banner shook his head. "What happened in Mexico is between the two of you. I'm not even supposed to know. I just happened to be here when you felt like drunk-confessing. You want him to know, you need to tell him. "

"Not his fault."

"When you showed up the other night it was pretty obvious you thought it was."

"I was mad. He didn't know. How could he? I didn't call him after the first time."

"But you wanted him to come and he didn't. Then to make it worse you were tortured for no reason but to find out how to get to Tony, who should have been with you to begin with in your eyes."

It was strange how well Bruce had hit the nail on the head. He had blamed Tony for being an idiot for a while. He'd been through so much on his mission to Russia which ended up all over the world. Some of the outliers on that mission settled in Mexico and Clint went down to round the rest of them up. With how dangerous the initial mission became, Clint needed a reliable back up beside the Russian bound Natasha, leaving Tony as a good go-to. When Stark turned him down it cut deep.

"If I hadn't called Tony, they wouldn't have known to get to him through me. It's not his fault."

"Does that mean you two are ok then?"

Clint smirked. "That depends if he can get this pain to go away or not."

Tony returned with a doctor in tow. He gestured, complained, and threw around his not inconsiderable influence until the doctor agreed to get Clint on something else. A nurse brought that something a few minutes later and suddenly Clint at last began to relax. His death grip on the pillows slackened first, afterwards his face began to smooth.

Tony sat back in his chair like a hero. He pulled out the breakfast sandwich he had thus far ignored and was just about to consider eating it when Clint rolled over into his waiting pot and vomited what he'd drank from the coffee. Tony rolled his sandwich back up and put it away.

"I think I'm going to die." Clint moaned. He pulled one of the pillows over his head and shivered.

"You're not going to die." Bruce told him. "You're not going to be very comfortable for a while, but you won't die. I think I'll go let them know you're still having a problem. I hate to say it Clint, but I think this means you're getting an epidural."

"Epi-what? Does that mean they're going to stick me with something?" Clint moaned.

Bruce stood, heading out with the door closing softly behind him. The minute he was away, Tony got out of his chair and paced around the room. Being in a hospital always made him uncomfortable. Especially when it was a friend who he had to visit. The tension between Clint and Tony had noticeably lessened but Stark knew there were some things left unsaid between them. Now that they were alone he wanted to smooth over a few of their rough edges.

Clint interrupted his thoughts. "Don't say it. Just forget it."

"What?"

"Drop it. You're an idiot. You held a grudge. I held a grudge. Now it's over."

Tony stopped pacing and crossed his arms. "Is that the wonderful drugs talking?"

"That's the wonderful coffee which you probably really wanted but spoon fed to me instead talking." Clint replied. His voice was a whisper and difficult to hear beneath the pillow fabric. Tony walked over and removed it. Clint's eyes were sunken and hollow, painted in exhaustion. He looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a baseball bat.

"Next time I'll hangout pool side and you get to drag yourself through the door with a broken leg."

"I already told Bruce the next rogue agent that walks through the door I have to drag to the hospital by myself. Do I have to agree to this too?"

"Or I could give you a broken leg now and make it even." Clint quipped without missing a beat.

"Do I get to pick the leg?"

"You can pick what I break it with."

"Somehow the method worries me more than the thought that you would be willing to do that." He looked at Clint, laying in the bed next to a bucket of his own vomit with a leg the size of a bowling ball and an incision that looked like at any moment it would split to the seams. "You know you look like crap."

"Appreciate the complement. Here I thought I looked worse."

"Pain any better?"

"Stomach's worse. Leg is more numb I suppose."

A nurse walked into the room followed by a few doctors and Bruce. It was time for Clint's hourly exam and he was very glad to have a numb leg for the majority of it. He endured the pokes and prods, answered quickly, honestly, and directly about his condition then waited for them to shuttle out. One of the anesthesiologists was being sent for. They hooked up a new line of fluids and pumped him full of more drugs. When they were alone again, he rolled on to his side and with Tony's assurance the billionaire wouldn't be going anywhere, Clint fell into a fitful sleep.

* * *

Please review!


	5. Chapter 4

And the dramatic conclusion.

Thanks for reading (or rereading!) this fun little romp. It is definitely one of my personal favorites.

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**Moment in Mexico  
**

Chapter 4

Three days of torture. Clint thought he'd escaped the pain and humiliation when he dragged himself out of that refugee camp outside Tijuana. Apparently that particular circle of Hell was nothing compared to repairing a fractured femur with a body that flatly refused all major opiod pain medication. Having first endured the nausea of morphine, then the vomiting of hydrocodone, and lastly the acid-trip of Demerol, the doctors sedated him in order to place an epidural to finally settle the extreme distress he experienced. Clint had never been a cheerleader of hospitals for the one reason the needles were always present. If there was one fear he allowed himself in life, then syringes won.

When he groggily rose from sedation, everything below his belt stopped working, necessitating another little spiral downward; namely, a urinary catheter. To top this never ending bereavement, every paparazzi on the west coast stood just outside the hospital wing performing acrobatic feats in order to get a picture of this mystery guest that so enthralled the likes of Tony Stark and Bruce Banner. Tony kept them on their toes at least. He enjoyed playing his little computer hacker games with their video feeds, even enlisting a janitor to dress in a hospital gown to offer some "exclusive" photo shots of the mystery guest. The tabloids picked it up immediately and by the evening news Fred Bakerman became the most famous janitor in the western hemisphere.

Needless to say when Clint at last made his escape from the hospital in the strict care of the two aforementioned souls, he felt all the better for it. Not physically, mind you, for the mere trouble it took to extract himself from the hospital bed and plop into a wheelchair almost proved his undoing. Sitting at all in a normal position transformed into an agony unlike any other. Against hospital wishes he settled for a set of crutches instead to get himself out the door. Besides, if he didn't run for it now, the likelihood of them keeping him longer was too much to bear. His incalculable need to break out had to be satiated before he made a truly disastrous decision of running off on his own. With the full go-ahead, a final shot of analgesia in his spine, and heavy amounts of NSAIDs he headed with his two . . . dare say . . . friends.

He exited the alcove to meet the teaming mass of photographers while flanked on either side by Tony and Bruce. Cameras flashed, his face barely fit properly under a borrowed ball cap. He was a spy after all. It didn't do him much good getting his face plastered on every billboard from here to Tibet.

At that same moment, Fred the janitor made his big appearance in a borrowed suit and took off in the opposite direction. Tony laughed to himself as the flock thinned out in their chase of the little red herring. Expecting to return to their individual lairs with any usable footage was out of the question. Tony knew as well as anyone Clint needed privacy. A little borrowed idea from a Batman movie took care of that issue. Pocket EMP that could disable camera equipment, cell phone signals, and shielded servers? Done. Could it also not cause the undue frying of his car engine? Tricky, but done. Happy pulled the car right up to the front entrance with the back door open to allow Clint to slip inside. Tony got in beside him and after Bruce made it to the front seat, Happy pulled away.

Escape successful.

What Clint planned on doing when he got to Stark's home, he was still trying to figure out. Bruce had offered up the guest bedroom he currently resided in to Clint's personal use, but Hawkeye refused. He'd be much more comfortable on the couch (which had been switch out for one that at least professed a mild comfort). Frankly Clint had seen enough of a bed the last few days. All he wanted was to lie back in a place that felt like a home and eat real food that wasn't smuggled in under Tony's jacket.

:(:):(:):

Clint hobbled through the front door on his crutches with Happy following behind. Tony had already walked in to get a few things moved around. Clint deeply wanted to pretend his life wasn't happening right now. How he planned to accomplish that still masked by obscurity, especially after seeing what man stood waiting for him at the bottom of Tony's stairs.

Director Fury. He thought his day couldn't get any worse. His legs were hardly working, his crutches were a beast to bear on the endless stairs downward and now this? How did Fury even get there? Happy helped to get Clint stretched out on Tony's couch. To Fury, this looked like one hot deal for an agent he always had trouble reigning in.

"When I got the report that said you were laid up in a hospital I figured you were on your death bed. I almost sent flowers to the unmarked grave I dug for you in the GRAFCON incident three years ago. Now I come to find out that not only did you survive being dragged through the crappiest part of Mexico I could ever hope to send you, but you're living the high life on a Stark credit card. Now tell me, Agent Barton, why I shouldn't put you down like a lame dog?"

"Sorry, Director, I did check in after my first day in the hospital." Clint replied.

The Director stood in the midst of the room. His single eye glaring down on his problem agent. "Hell yeah you did. I had some guy named Maurice send me a private message saying that Clint Barton, having forgotten his I.D., lost his credentials, and in a public hardly regulated hospital was rushed to surgery. Apparently they pumped you full of enough blood to power an elephant. And then, this guy tells me that Tony Stark and Dr. Banner are at that hospital threatening the staff with national secrets. **_And then_** I see this national news reel about a third floor janitor elevated to the same pop star level as Michael Jackson's pet flamingos. Now you asked me why I showed up myself, well I just had to _see_ this for myself."

"Nothing to see." Clint told him, shifting uncomfortably under that difficult one-eyed glare. "Wasn't my idea to go to any hospital."

"But you let Banner take you. And can I ask if all the doctors came away with all of their fingers after they tried to stab you with something?"

Clint scowled. Sometimes he didn't appreciate the reputation that preceded him.

"And I remember the last time an agent tried to make you do anything, we had to pick him up from the middle of the Utah desert. I seem to recall you kicked the guy out of a plane for suggesting to follow protocol."

"As I remember it, he attempted to radio a call check during an undercover operation after I declared radio silence." Clint corrected. "And Coulson told me to."

Fury was unimpressed. "Uh huh."

In the background both Banner and Tony hovered. Tony's face reddened. He wanted to jump in, but outwardly Bruce instructed him to hang back. SIELD had its own problems to deal with and the Avengers were not there to solve them. Happy stood dutifully off to the side should someone need him or Tony decide to haul Fury out.

Clint threw his arms up. "I don't get why you're riding me about this. It's not like I went out of my way to end up here!"

"Oh, you didn't? Excuse me while I file that little nugget away under my rock of B.S. you spout off with every day. I don't remember asking you to do anything more than go in undercover as an analysis for IMF. You were the one who took off all over the planet with a Tom Cruise look-a-like. And how was letting a rogue agent get away with nuclear launch codes a bright idea? I hope that was fun cause I sure had a big laugh about it when I sent Jennings to the bottom of the San Francisco Bay to fish out a warhead that just _happened_ to show up there."

Clint opened his mouth to say something, but Fury made it clear he wasn't finished. All of this back and forth was making his leg feel less numb. He rubbed his bandages.

"Then when you finally show up someplace, you're back in that abandoned church steeple like Quasimodo!"

"That abandoned place is my apartment." Clint retorted. "The rent's cheap and for what I get paid to do what I do you aren't allowed to complain about it."

"The rent is free, because it's like a Horror House from a Joss Whedon movie. You're a pariah, not a bat. Then after blowing up the Kremlin, launching a nuclear device, having a shootout in Dubai, and photo bombing a few sheiks at some fancy party, you take the Mexico mission without a second thought. Now, I said you aren't giving me a lot of options here, Barton and I mean that. If you want me to just pull out my gun and shoot you in the head to get it over with, I'll do that. Frankly, I won't even waste a bullet. I figure over the years you've saved me a LOT of bullets. I won't even feel bad about the mess it makes either you know why? Cause Stark will have to clean it up. And that makes me happy. So if you want me not to do that I think you should just say so."

Clint didn't answer at first. Basically Fury had called him out for being suicidal in the missions he was taking on. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. Mostly he had difficulty decided whether Fury had a point or not. Behind him both Bruce and Tony looked shaken. Feeling that the conversation had taken a private turn, both disappeared around the corner due to Bruce's dragging grip.

Fury nodded. "That's what I thought. You're beat down, agent. I can't use you like this."

An icy chill pierced Clint's chest. "Wait a minute!"

"Now, stop freaking out. I'm not actually going to shoot you. I could, but I'm not. I'm taking you off active. You need the time to get walking again anyway. Doc says seven weeks. You get that and I'll do you one more. You aren't coming back to the Helicarrier either."

"Then what are you doing?" Clint accused. "You're taking me off active, I'm not stamping envelopes in logistics if that's what you're thinking. I did my time in Afghanistan, if you're planning to drop me in that desert for another three years, then I'll take that bullet first."

Fury got up. "Stop twisting your panties. You're staying here with Stark. Dr. Banner, even though he keeps swearing this isn't his expertise, is taking you on. I've already called Agent Romanov in. She'll be debriefed in the morning."

Fury headed for the stairs, Clint pushed himself up to follow after the Director. Everything the man was spouting didn't make sense. What did Natasha have to do with all this? What did he mean Clint wasn't coming back to the Helicarrier?

"Wait a sec! What's going on?" Clint called.

Fury stopped at the staircase and turned. "I'm taking you off active Agent of Operations detail. I'm sticking you on Avenger detail. Romanov too. Much as I hate to admit it, Barton, you're affective. You can keep Stark in check, I hope, which is something very few have been able to do. Between you and Dr. Banner I expect to see that tin can reigned in. I'm sending Romanov to keep an eye on you. Congratulations, Hawk. You just got our official Avengers' acceptance."

"Director?"

"What?"

"Thank you."

Fury laughed. It always had a somewhat disturbing quality to it. "Barton I just told you I'm locking you away for whatever natural life you have left with Tony Stark. Don't thank me."

:(:):(:):

Stark had a tendency to wander about his home in the middle of the night. He was never a good sleeper, often waking before JARVIS told him to in order to write down the little dream ideas he'd conjured in his sleep. Or a half-done project would sing its siren song and off he'd go from bed to finish it. Tonight held little difference than all those others.

He'd nearly forgotten that Clint was in his home at all. When he walked through the living room to find a man sleeping on his couch he had to think a moment as to why he didn't look like Bruce Banner. Clint rolled out of his blanket, and Tony recognized him.

As the Avenger walked over to replace it, he got a closer look at the quiet Barton. He noticed Clint was not asleep at all. He curled tightly in a quivering ball, teeth gritted tight against their top and bottom arcades. Tony at first assumed the man must have busted his leg all over again.

"Barton? Hey, you all right." He asked, reaching a tentative hand toward him.

Clint waved at him, telling him to stop, or leave, or both. His chin tightened where his teeth harshly clamped together. One pale white hand covered his eyes in an attempt to retain his focus on banishing the pain away.

"Is it really that bad?" Tony asked.

Clint didn't move as he felt more engrossed in taking a large steadying breath. He blew the air out in a groan. The pain worsened at night for some reason. When all went quiet and he was left alone, his leg felt the need to remind him just how awful he had it. Suddenly all those things he hated at the hospital didn't seem so bad. In fact he was almost willing to go back, right now, if it meant they could numb him from head to toe again.

Tony stood over him like a lost child. He was never a big fan of pain himself, but the look on Clint's face could likely to shatter him. Tony had felt that way once. He woke up on an operating table with his chest peeled open like a lobster tail. He knew what pain like that could do to a man. He knew also how it must be killing Clint inside.

That did it. Tony needed to help. He disappeared for a few minutes to the kitchen. After a time he returned with a bottle in one hand and a couple glasses in the other. With a foot, he dragged over the low coffee table and plunked down on it while popping the top off of his home remedy. He tapped Clint's tense arm with a glass. Clint was fully prepared to ignore anything he had to offer. He had a difficult enough time trying to bury the agony deep where he couldn't reach it.

"Come on, Clint, I might not be a doctor but I know alcohol numbs all woes."

In light of that statement, Clint had to turn his head to see what he went on about. Tony hovered a glass of scotch over his arm. The remainder of the bottle and a spare shot sat beside Tony on the coffee table.

"Just take it. Three shots in you'll feel fine."

Clint looked at the glass again. He wanted it more than he'd ever wanted alcohol in his entire life. "Seems like a bad idea." He whispered.

"I won't tell dad if you won't." Tony replied.

He took the glass, threw it back, and coughed as it burned its way down. The movement caused his leg to light on fire. His fist balled, punching into the couch cushion as he muffled a scream in his arm. Tony could only sit there like a lump and listen to him. When it seemed the pain had ebbed some, he poured a second shot and handed it over. Clint drank it down almost as fast as the first and suffered the same consequences.

"Slow down, would you? Keep drinking like a carp and I'll have to dunk you in the pool." Tony said.

"Don't want to waste time." Clint said. "It's killing me. God, it hurts so bad."

"Yeah, I got that. Take this one slower. Trust me, I'm not leaving till you're so drunk I could slap you and you wouldn't feel it."

Clint sipped his third shot in half a minute. He was still twisted up on the couch, unable or unwilling to move to a better position. He waited for Tony to start pouring again. Even if he wasn't a big fan of this plan initially, it began feeling better and better by the minute. So what if he killed his liver in the process? He could get a new one of those, couldn't he?

Tony poured, Clint drank, Tony drank, and Tony poured again. The cycle continued in a neat little circle as slowly but surely Clint felt the welcoming effects of a body full of alcohol and absolutely nothing else. Tony saw this as a potential hazard to his floor should Clint's stomach rebel and disappeared to the kitchen for a box of Cheeze-Its.

:(:):(:):

The bottle of scotch was nearly empty along with the box of crackers when Bruce Banner made his own midnight journey down the hall. The guest bedroom necessitated a travel into the living room in order to reach the restroom. The sound of two jovial voices laughing in the middle of the night was all Bruce needed to divert from his primary objective. His jaw unhinged.

"Oh my—Clint what do you think you're doing!?" He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he snatched the liquor bottle off the table and read the label. Then he grabbed the bottle of prescription pills.

"How many of these did you take?" He demanded.

Clint shrugged, smiling and pleasantly numb.

"You don't know or you can't remember? How did you even get this? Tony, are you drunk?"

Tony held a finger up to defend himself, and then smiled at it.

"Don't answer that." Bruce snapped. "What are you trying to do? Kill him? He's probably bleeding throughout his intestines by this point. He JUST suffered a major hemorrhage."

"Yeah, but he's numb . . . er." Tony reported. "Is that a word? Numb . . . er?"

"No, but idiot is. Go back to bed. So help me, Barton, if you start trying to bleed to death on me again I think I'll just kill you myself."

"Yes dad." Clint replied. He curled the blanket up under his chin and settled down into the cushions. He wasn't sure how much he'd actually drank in the end. Hadn't they started off with a full bottle? There was less than a shot left at the point Bruce actually stopped him. Somewhere in those drunk thoughts, Clint began to come to a revelation. This, starting today, was going to be normal. This camaraderie, this time with friends, this protective Bruce, enabling Tony, drunken night was not just a one-time event. Clint could call himself an Avenger now. Life for him had changed in ways he could not yet predict. His little church steeple in Georgia would become a thing of the past as he enveloped into the ragtag bunch that surrounded the lives of those men before him now.

Clint smiled. Liquor made him philosophical.

"Dad nothing, get to sleep before I make you. Tony, stop trying to walk to bed if you can't even stand up without falling over. Get in that chair. Just stay there. No, I'll get you a pillow just stay there. If you two are going to take this much babysitting, SHIELD is going to have to pay me more." Bruce complained. He left for a moment, returning with a pillow and blanket for Tony. Obviously he didn't plan on guiding the billionaire back to bed and instead expected him to sleep in the arm chair. Tony complied.

"Sleeping with us now?

"Apparently I have to keep an eye on you, so yes."

Bruce dragged over a second chair for himself. He took the throw blanket off the back of the couch and sat his legs up on the coffee table. After a time, he even grabbed the liquor bottle and swallowed the last bit of it.

"Don't worry." Clint told him, yawning. "We'll listen."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Because I don't like you when you're angry."

* * *

I hope you enjoyed it! Special thanks to icanhearthedrums for helping me round out this ending.

if you liked it, please review!


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